


The Source of His Reasoning

by thatcherbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Blackmail, Case Fic, Casual Sex, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neighbors, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcherbatch/pseuds/thatcherbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's new neighbor almost seems to enjoy his reading of her and he certainly enjoys having someone around for intelligent conversation. But when their platonic relationship starts feeling a little constrictive, do they dare consider something else? Set both Pre & Post Reichenbach Fall. Rating for violence, themes, and smut in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to mention and for some reason it didn't come up but this is set in 2007: meant to be around two years before Sherlock and John meet if my timeline is correct.

_'221C Baker St. Cozy, one-bedroom, basement flat in Marylebone. No pets. EIK. W/D. Call Ms. Hudson.'_

Though not particularly descriptive, Thatcher Greene found herself calling to inquire about the ad anyway. The flat was within her price range and in an ideal area of London. She made an appointment to visit and inspect it in person and though she liked the sound of her possibly new landlady, it almost seemed too good to be true. She immediately put the information into the calendar on her phone and set an alarm for the morning. Hopefully this would finally be the place she would call home, at least for the next few years. It had been two days since Thatcher arrived in London and none of the apartments she had seen impressed her.

_'To be fair, one of them did but there was no way I could afford it,'_  she reminded herself, rolling over to lay on her back in her hotel bed.

At 23, Thatcher had been a student on her own for almost five years. She worked tirelessly for her high G.P.A. to keep her scholarship and generously her parents had paid the rest. Anything else she wanted to do or needed was of her own expense so living on a limited budget was something she had gotten good at. After completing a year of her graduate studies in the US she knew she had to get out. Thatcher had always planned on traveling the world and it would be a lot easier to do once she took the first step. The move was not a popular one among her friends or family but she didn't care; she had been admitted to Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry and would be able to complete her research under the leading scientist in the field.

_'The genetic basis of disease,'_  she thought to herself, crossing her arms on the pillow above her head.  _'Saving lives one gene at a time.'_  She chuckled to herself, recalling her advisor saying those very words only six months ago. In fact, he had been one of the few people supportive of her decision.

"Nope, nope, nope," she muttered, rolling over and reaching into her bag for a book. Thatcher refused to let her mind drift to that man for any reason. Sighing, she opened Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and felt herself relax as she sunk into Wonderland for the umpteenth time.

* * *

Standing at the base of the stairs at 221 Baker St, Thatcher took a deep breath and took a moment to push her blonde bangs out of her eyes. Not wanting to be rude, she used the knocker on the large black door rather than trying the door knob. Faintly she could hear a man's voice bellow, "Mrs. Hudson!" and then a few seconds later, hurried footsteps in her direction.

The door swung open and before her stood a middle aged woman, looking rather anxious but still smiling. "Hello, dear. You must be Thatcher. I'm Mrs. Hudson, please come in. You must be freezing."

"Thank you," she replied, hurrying in, grateful for the warmth. Moving in the winter was not ideal but she hoped that since it wasn't exactly a peak season it might cost less. "It's very nice to meet you. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet so quickly. I've been staying in a hotel and I'm dying to get out."

Mrs. Hudson nodded knowingly, ushering her past the stairs to a door that was padlocked shut. "Anytime, dear," she said, unlocking both the padlock and the door. "I must warn you, it is the basement so you will be a bit cooler than the rest of the house."

"Oh, that's fine. I'd much rather be cold than hot," Thatcher said, following her down the stairs.

It was cleanly kept and definitely cozy.  _'But you don't need a lot of space.'_  She touched the wallpaper hanging on the wall in the living, instantly in love with the pattern. "There's a fireplace?"

"Yes. It works, too."

"Good, good," she mumbled, leaving the living room to inspect the other three rooms: a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen with an eat-in area. Though it would definitely require a bit of cleaning it had been kept up well and everything seemed to be in good condition. "I'll take it."

Mrs. Hudson did not look pleased. "I'm so glad you like it. However, before you make your final decision, I'm afraid there is someone you need to me. You're upstairs neighbor, in flat B."

"Oh, okay, that's fine," she said, shrugging lightly and still smiling. There was nothing that could deter her now. It was an incredible flat for the price and she could deal with a strange or annoying neighbor considering she really wasn't planning on spending much free time at home anyway.

Thatcher followed the woman back up the stairs to the main level and then up again. The door on the landing was open to reveal a large living area that was scattered with many things. _'Hoarder?'_  she wondered, raising an eyebrow at the strange items littering the apartment.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called out. After getting no reply, the woman walked in to the apartment and glanced around, apparently not finding who she was looking for. She turned back to Thatcher and called for him again. "Sherlock! Come meet your new neighbor."

"I'll be out in a minute!" a voice boomed from one of the back rooms.

Sighing, Mrs. Hudson walked out of the apartment and motioned for Thatcher to go in. "Make yourself at home, dear. I'll go and make us all some tea."

"Uh," she started but it was too late. The woman was already hurrying back down the stairs. "Okay…" She took a few slow steps in, unsure of who or what she might find. Whoever it was definitely had an eclectic taste: there were two pieces of leather furniture, a rather old over-stuffed arm chair, a desk covered completely save the space for a laptop, and bookshelves on either side of the mantle. Everywhere she looked Thatcher would find something new to interest her.

"Whoa," she uttered, glancing at the long table situated in the kitchen. Though the equipment was by no means new, it looked as if someone was attempting lab work. Thatcher gingerly touched the eye pieces of the microscope, her curiosity about her neighbor rising by the moment. She looked around her once more to make sure she wouldn't be caught and turned back to the microscope, turned the light on and peered in.

"Back away now," a male's voice said calmly from behind her. Thatcher stood up straight and took a quick breath before turning to face who she assumed to be Sherlock. "Why are you in here?" He reached around her quickly, turning the light in the microscope off, his expression unreadable and his eyes staring unwaveringly into her own.

As she opened her mouth to speak, she felt her words catch in her throat. She liked to think that she wasn't intimidated easily but this man was doing a good job of proving her wrong. She cleared her throat and said, "I'm waiting to meet you, actually. I'm Thatcher Greene-I'm looking at the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson told me to wait here, she's making tea."

To say Sherlock was bothered by the woman's presence in his kitchen would be an understatement. His eyes scanned over her, picking up as much as he could. Judging by the way she treated the adjustment knobs on the microscope, it was definitely not her first or even her hundredth time using one; her delicate motions were the sign of someone well-versed in microscopy. She was about six inches shorter than him and rather slim.

He walked from the kitchen and took a seat in the modern style leather armchair, outstretching his arm to offer her the seat across from him. He brought his hands together, fingertips resting gently under his chin as he observed her. Normally Sherlock found that people were uncomfortable under his gaze but she didn't seem to mind. Instead of looking away she either met his eyes or seemed to be trying to read him back.

"Your mother or father?" He asked, watching her face.

"What?"

"Which one is from London?"

"Why would you think-?" she asked, her attention completely focused on him now.

"Your accent. Obviously American, from the Midwest. Some of your pronunciations, however, are obviously not. Though not enough to indicate you've lived in London previously. Must be a close family member; parents or siblings though parents is more likely."

Thatcher's eyes widened and a small smile played on her lips. "What else?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, enjoying her response. "You're a scientist, though obviously not a microbiologist from your under reaction to what you observed. You're thin but have lost weight recently-your clothes are baggy and considering your chosen profession and the fact you are meeting with a potential landlady, today was not a day to underdress-it was unexpected and you haven't had time to get clothes that fit. Ink on the side of your hand; you're right-handed and writing constantly: if you had poor hygiene and simply refrained from washing your hands, there would dirt under your nails but there isn't. You're a graduate student here to finish your studies. Was it an ex-boyfriend or a falling out with your parents?"

Thatcher raised her eyebrows questioningly at him, the smile still on her face though it no longer reached her eyes. Sighing lightly, he continued. "If you were this bad at handling stress you wouldn't have made it this far so something has happened to increase your anxiety. So which is it?"

"Neither," she answered easily, shrugging at him. She was lying and they both knew it.

"Boyfriend then."

"What makes you think that?" she asked, running her fingers through her hair.

"Your necklace: you have it cleaned but not proud enough to display it. Either you don't like it or you wear it as a silent reminder to yourself. You've reached up twice unconsciously to touch the chain since we have sat down so it obviously means something to you. A gift from someone who has hurt you, possibly your parents but more likely someone with a romantic attachment. Recent enough you haven't moved on and stopped wearing it but you keep it hidden beneath your shirt so you don't have to look at it. The fact that you still have it at all suggests you were the one to end the relationship. Yet you're also the one who left the country." Sherlock uttered in a single breath, his gaze only moving from hers when he noticed Ms. Hudson coming up the stairs holding a tray for tea.

"You two look like you're getting along?" Ms. Hudson said carefully, handing Thatcher a cup of tea. She smiled and nodded in response, taking a sip of her tea and grateful for the moment's rest from Sherlock's company.

"He's definitely…perceptive," Thatcher said after another moment of silence. The alarmed look she had seen earlier returned to Ms. Hudson's face.

"Oh, Sherlock," she started, shaking her head at the man as he spooned sugar into his tea.

"She'll take it, Ms. Hudson and be moved in by the end of the week." Sherlock told her before she could continue scolding him.

"Oh, good! I'm sure you'll love it. Let me go get an application to collect your information and we'll get started!" Mrs. Hudson said excitedly, moving quickly after having seen Thatcher nod in agreement to Sherlock's statement.

They sat alone together and silent for almost a full minute before either one of them spoke. "It was both," she said, watching him as she took another sip. "Both of my parents are from London. I am a graduate student. And I did recently go through a break-up."

His eyes lit up, utterly pleased with himself.

"Thatcher, dear, would you come down and fill these out?" Mrs. Hudson called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Of course, I'll be down in a moment." She set aside her tea and stood to leave. She was in the doorway when she turned back to ask, "You're not a microbiologist, are you?"

He looked up from his tea. "Sorry?"

"Just…can you do me a favor and not bring Bacillus anthracis to the building anymore? I'm not a microbiologist either but I do know that I don't want Anthrax." With a small smile and wave, she turned back and went down the stairs.

Sherlock sunk a bit lower into his chair, smiling as he raised the cup to his lips. He always enjoyed the clever ones. He wasn't sure how long she would last in 221C but he had a feeling this interaction would not be their last.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new presence in 221C brings out an surprising side to Sherlock.

Before the week was over there was another thing Thatcher could add to the list of things that Sherlock was right about: she had completely moved her things in and had most of the unpacking done. Though the movers she hired had been expensive, she was well aware of her own limitations and that there was very little chance she would have been able to get her furniture down the stairs by herself. She sat on the floor in the middle of her living room, counting her belongings as if something would be missing.  

_‘Couch. Chair. Coffee table. Bed. Dresser. Kitchen table. Bookcases.’_

It wasn’t much but it was all she needed, especially the bookcases. They were overflowing with books, scientific journals, notebooks from previous work she completed and textbooks from her studies. There were only two pictures that had made the trip over with her, both of her family, and they were both still in the only remaining packed box in her apartment. Every time she pulled them out to place on the mantle she ended up putting them right back in the box. She loved her family and knew they loved her back but it was hard enough to be alone in a new country without being constantly reminded of who she had left behind. It wasn’t like she was just away at school anymore; there would be no more last minute trips or family functions. Instead, it would be major holidays. 

_‘Next Christmas,’_ she thought, sighing to herself. Since she had just moved and Christmas was so close there was no way she could afford to fly back. Her parents had offered to pay but she didn’t feel right about it; they had done so much for her already. The next time she came home she wanted to have done it on her own and prove to everyone that she could make it. If that meant being gone for over a year, so be it.

Thatcher looked up at the ceiling as she heard the now-familiar sound of violin music wafting through the entire house from Sherlock’s flat. She had only seen him in passing since moving in and so far things had been fine. He kept rather strange hours but other than that, she enjoyed the violin playing and not having to make awkward conversation. She stood slowly, stretching her legs and deciding to pay her neighbor a visit. Thatcher climbed the stairs but didn’t bother locking her door behind her. If anyone came into the building she would hear them anyway. The next set of stairs she climbed slower until she saw that his door was open. The old wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet as she finished and reached the landing. 

Sherlock turned his body enough to look over his shoulder to look at the intruder but did not stop playing. He had finished a case the day after she moved in and already found himself growing restless. Most would assume not being called in by the police for help solving a crime would be a good thing but not him. He craved distractions, puzzles, anything that would keep his mind occupied. He noticed that the longer he spent between cases the more he indulged in certain behaviors which, while certainly distracting, did not provide the satisfaction he truly desired. 

"Bach?"

Sherlock turned slowly to face Thatcher and tried to keep playing but the notes weren't coming to him anymore. He sighed and let the bow and violin move from playing position to rest in his hands at his side. 

"Well don't stop," she said, moving from her spot leaning against the door frame to take a seat in the left corner of his couch. "You play beautifully." 

He scanned her over quickly, immediately grateful for his findings. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, no traces of makeup were found anywhere on her face, and she was dressed very casually in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He felt confident in his assumption that she was not going to try and make any sexual advances so he raised his violin back up to rest on his chest. "Your alma mater?" he inquired, pointing at her shirt with his bow before picking up where he left off. He shut his eyes and could see the notes before him as if he was looking at the sheet music.

"Yes. Washington University." 

"Impressive."

"If you say so."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at her and was met with the sight of her smirking at him. 

"Is it safe to say that the dangerous bacteria has been removed from the premises?”

“Hardly dangerous,” he responded, shrugging lightly. 

“Right,” she said slowly, laughing a bit. “How did you even get ahold of it? I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. Oh, and once in person in a contamination-free lab but I had to wear this ridiculous plastic suit.”

Sherlock almost allowed himself to smile at the mental image but caught himself in time. “Found in the lungs of a dead man. Police originally thought he committed suicide.”

“Thought?” she inquired, tilting her head to the left slightly. 

“He was found hanging in his apartment,” he replied matter-of-factly. 

“Right. And that’s not suicide?”

“Not when there is a rare, lethal bacterium in his lungs.” 

“Ah. I take it you’re not a big proponent of coincidence then?” 

“Hardly,” he said with a scoff, playing again. 

Thatcher listened for a few moments before interrupting with another question. “Do the police ask you whether someone committed suicide or not on a regular basis?”

“Relatively.” 

“But you don’t work for the police department? Come to think of it, you never mentioned what you did.” Thatcher crossed her arms across her chest and laid her head back on the couch. So far their interaction had been much less painful than either of them had anticipated. 

“I do consulting work. Mostly for the police but occasionally I take civilian requests.” 

“Consulting? So…you’re like a consulting detective?” she asked, barely able to get the phrase out before yawning. 

“I’d rather you didn’t fall asleep on my couch,” Sherlock stated quickly. 

“Me too. I’ve got my first day of work tomorrow.” Thatcher stood, lifted her arms above her head and stood on tip-toe, feeling the muscles in her body stretching. She didn’t wait for any sort of wishes of luck from him because she felt relatively sure that she would be waiting for a long time. She walked through the doorway and had a foot on the first step when she stopped. “Can you keep playing?”

“Why?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows at her. 

“It’s relaxing,” she said, shrugging. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”  

Instead of responding to her he began playing again, though he had to admit it didn’t seem to have nearly the same appeal as before. She offered him a smile but didn’t wait for it to be returned. As soon as she was downstairs, in her own apartment, she got into bed and got the chills from the cold sheets. She laid still, barely able to hear Sherlock playing anymore through the floors and closed doors between them. It didn’t take her long to drift off to sleep so she didn’t notice that the music stopped only a few minutes later or his rushed footsteps down the stairs. 

Sherlock pulled his long, black coat tighter around his body against the chill of the night. Thatcher’s company had provided a small amount of relief from the nagging he felt but it only seemed to tug on his mind even harder after she had left again. He played for a couple minutes, finishing the piece but almost immediately afterward put the instrument down and grabbed his coat and scarf. He couldn’t stand to be cooped up anymore. He lost himself in his own thoughts, trusting his feet to lead him on the same path as usual. He always went to the same bar, always ordered the same drink, and always used the same line. And so far, it had always worked. Tonight, though, he thought of making an exception. 

“Consulting detective,” he mumbled to himself, liking the sound of it more and more as it echoed in his mind. Sherlock flipped his collar up against the breeze and allowed himself to smile fleetingly. The scenery around him seemed to come back into focus as he arrived at his destination. He made two mental notes that night as he entered the loud bar, his eyes scanning the relatively large crowd for a Sunday:

One - _It was 10:45 pm. If he made it back out by 11:00 pm he would beat his previous record, which was a tempting conquest._  

Two - _Bringing whatshername back to Baker Street that night was not going to happen._  

Though he knew the reason why, Sherlock was not going to admit it to himself. He enjoyed having Thatcher as a neighbor so far and had a feeling that bringing random women to his flat, especially on weeknights, would definitely not encourage her to stay. After all, the last one who had moved into 221C barely lasted a month. He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered. “Scotch, neat.” 

It didn’t take long for someone to approach him. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked the woman leaning rather obnoxiously against the bar, much closer to him than someone who wasn’t inebriated would. 

“I’ve got wine back at my place,” she said, a small slur present in her voice while her hand came to rest on his arm. Sherlock glanced quickly over her shoulder, checking the clock. _10:55 pm._ He stood slowly and paid the bartender before taking her hand and leading her toward the door. Standing on the curb, he hailed a cab and was hardly listening to whatever ‘sweet nothings’ were being whispered in his ear. He was surprised when she didn’t stop once they were inside the taxi. Exasperated, he kissed her quickly knowing that if he didn’t shut her up soon he wouldn’t make it back to her place and would have to do this all over again. Sherlock feared it was going to be a much longer night than he had originally anticipated.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher stumbles upon Sherlock during his walk of shame on her way to work; Sherlock asks for help with a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The riddle used in this chapter is from 'The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I by no means claim ownership of it.

The next morning seemed to come entirely too soon for Thatcher and the warmth of her bed was a pull not easily pushed aside. She had never liked first days and noticed they tended to lead to increased anxiety rather than excitement on her part. Still, it didn't matter anymore. 

' _You're not fifteen. It's not the first day of high school._ ' She reminded herself, throwing the covers back and instantly regretting that decision. She cursed under her breath, jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, peeling her clothes off along the way. Thatcher turned the knob to get the water going in her shower but quickly withdrew it when freezing water stung her skin. ' _Shit_ ,' she cursed again. She turned the knob again and felt the water slowly begin to warm up. 

"Thank god," she said to herself as she stepping into the shower. Normally Thatcher would take her time and actually try to wake herself up a bit but she didn't have time for a leisurely shower this particular morning. She went through the motions of her shower routine though skipping shaving her legs. ' _No reason. Not anyone to notice._ '

She was finished and shivering in a towel after fifteen minutes. She looked around to find her blow dryer, which didn't take long, but once it was in her hands she realized the plugs were wrong and she didn't have any adapters. Trying not to completely lose it, Thatcher put the blow dryer back in its place and hurried to her bedroom. She was determined to not let something as trivial as her blow dryer get her worked up. 

' _Black pants? Check. Button-up? Check._ ' The clothes hung neatly in her closet. She opted for the shirt first. Once it was buttoned she tucked into her black pants. Thatcher had never been one for dressing up, even in something as simple as work clothes, preferring the comfort of jeans and t-shirts more than anything. She stared at her reflection briefly before reaching back into her closet and grabbing a grey cashmere sweater. The fabric felt incredible under her fingertips and felt like it would offer some kind of protection. She returned to the bathroom long enough to pull her hair back into a tight bun and pulled the sweater over her head. It was too large on her, but she didn't care. It was her security blanket for the day and there was no way she was leaving the flat without it. 

Thatcher stood in her living room, looking at her messenger bag, unable to shake the feeling that she was forgetting something. Then it dawned on her. Laughing lightly, she looked down and realized she wasn't wearing shoes. "That wouldn't have lasted long." 

She hurried back to her bedroom and pulled a pair of thick black socks from the top drawer of her dresser. Though her old black boots probably weren't exactly work appropriate, they were comfortable and there was no way in hell she was going to stand around a lab in heels all day. She gathered the rest of her things quickly and hurried up the stairs, barely remembering to lock the door behind her. She pulled her phone out to get directions as she walked out onto the sidewalk and when she looked up couldn't stifle a laugh at the sight before her. 

"Sherlock Holmes. Are you in the middle of a walk of shame?" She asked, stepping toward him as he stepped out of the taxi that had just pulled up. 

Thatcher was quite possibly the last person he had been planning on seeing this morning. Sherlock paid the cabbie and turned to her, trying to figure out what to say but she was rushing passed him, reaching for the door handle. He moved quickly and pulled the door open, holding it for her. “Thank you,” she said, getting in easily. She leaned forward and told the driver her destination before turning her attention back to her upstairs neighbor. 

“Walk of shame?” he queried as he leaned down to speak to her through the still open door. 

“You don’t know what a walk of shame is?” she asked, not even bothering to try and hide the smile on her face from him. “As much as I would love to stay and watch you find out what it is, I must head to work. Just Google it.” He shut the car door without another word. Fearing he was angry with her, Thatcher turned to look out the back window as they pulled away, hoping to discern his expression but he was unreadable. She held up her hand offering him a small wave of goodbye and he responded by shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. 

“Alright,” she muttered, turning back and getting comfortable in her seat. She put him out of her mind, deciding her first day was something much more worthy of her anxiety. 

 

Sherlock scoffed loudly three minutes later, shutting his laptop. He steepled his fingers together and rested his chin on the tips. It wasn’t like him to even attempt to spare someone else’s feelings and yet the one time he had tried, it had backfired which only solidified his belief in the practice being utterly useless.  For now that terribly annoying biological nag was at bay so this situation would be able to be avoided for a while and it would give him time to figure out his next mode of attack. His thoughts were interrupted by loud banging on the front door. “Mrs. Hudson!” he bellowed, rolling his eyes. When the door opened he recognized the visitor as soon as he heard the small exchange between them and Mrs. Hudson. The door shut just as quickly as it opened and there were heavy footsteps up the stairs. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, not bothering to get up from his chair to greet the man. 

“Hello Sherlock. Feel like a riddle?”

“Do you really have to ask?” he responded, raising an eyebrow at the man as he took the free seat across the desk. Lestrade pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was a photocopy of what appeared to be a handwritten note. 

_‘Whose was it?’  
_ _‘His who is gone.’  
_ _‘Who shall have it?’  
_ _‘He who will come.’  
_ _‘What was the month?’  
_ _‘The sixth from the first.’  
_ _‘Where was the sun?’  
_ _‘Over the oak.’  
_ _‘Where was the shadow?’  
_ _‘Under the elm.’  
_ _‘How was it stepped?’  
_ _‘North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and two, west by one and by one, and so under.’  
_ _‘What shall we give for it?’  
_ _‘All that is ours.’  
_ _‘Why should we give it?’  
_ _‘For the sake of the trust.’_  

“Where did you get this?” he asked, looking up once he had finished reading. 

“A man named Reginald Musgrave came in to report two of his staff missing: one butler and one maid. This note was found in the butler’s private quarters. Apparently it’s a-“ 

“A family ritual,” Sherlock finished, his mind turning quickly. “A secret.”

“How did you know?” Lestrade asked, surprised but not shocked. After their professional relationship had passed the two year mark, Lestrade found that he was very rarely shocked by Sherlock’s ability anymore. 

“Reginald Musgrave…we went to university together. I distinctly remember him liking to drink and challenge people to solve that very riddle. Not much of a secret.” 

“Let me guess, you were the only one to solve it.”

“No. I couldn’t.”

“A problem that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t deduce?” 

“I didn’t say that. The riddle is clearly directions to finding something but no indication of what exactly the search for or where to begin. It’s meant for someone who knows where to start. It’s a bit more difficult to solve a problem without being given all the pieces.”

“I thought that was your speciality,” Lestrade said, sitting back in his chair. 

“My speciality is observation and deduction. Give me the pieces and I put them together. I can’t find a piece that doesn’t exist,” Sherlock replied, an annoyed tone in his voice. He did not like to be doubted, especially by someone who he had proved himself to countless times. 

"Well, think on it a bit more and let me know what you think," Lestrade said, standing to leave. 

"Of course," he replied, waving the man off. Sherlock could see the words floating before him as if someone had written them midair. He mentally separated the pieces multiple times but no matter the combination, he was unable to come up with anything new. 

 

"So who was she?" A voice broke through his thoughts with the one question he had been hoping to not have to face today.  

Sherlock stood from his seat at the desk feeling a bit of pain as the muscles in his legs stretched. Seeing it was Thatcher, he became momentarily confused. "Sorry, what? I thought you were going to work."

A surprised look showed on her face as she checked the watch on her wrist and then looked back up at him. "Sherlock it's six. I've been at work all day." 

"Oh," he said quietly, waving her in from the door frame and moving to his kitchen to get a glass of water. She put her bag down on the floor next to the old armchair and plopped down into the seat. When he had finished the glass and was walking over, Sherlock took a moment to really look at the woman before him. He stood by all of his original findings though it seemed as if the stories behind them might be much deeper than he assumed. 

"Whose sweater?" He inquired, taking a seat across from her. 

"Mine," she replied, sighing at him. Thatcher didn't really feel like playing the back-and-forth-game especially when she came in feeling like she had the upper hand for once. "So tell me. Who were you out with last night?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know. Does it?"

Sherlock pondered the question thoroughly before answering. He knew there was no correct answer; either way there could be room for interpretation on her part that would make his answer invalid. "No." 

"Then tell me if it doesn't matter!" She replied quickly, smiling at him. 

"I don't know."

"Sherlock, look. If we're going to be neighbors we need to be able to be honest with one another especially if there is going to be strange women coming and going at all hours." 

"Then why won't you tell me whose sweater that is?" He fired back, crossing his legs. 

“So there will be random women traipsing through the house?” Not waiting for an answer, Thatcher sat back in her chair, mirroring his pose unconsciously. "I'll make you a deal. I'll be honest with you if you're honest with me...the sweater belonged to my ex. I needed a reminder of something that made me comfortable to soothe my anxiety today."

"Most people just take Xanax," he stated, watching to see if she had any response, even one that she didn't know she was giving. 

Thatcher was apparently not amused by his response. He could see the muscles in her jaw tighten but other than that, nothing. “Do you?” 

“No. Do you?” He countered coolly. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. You tell me,” she challenged, sitting forward, resting her forearms on her legs. 

“No,” he replied, shrugging. There was little chance of him being able to figure that out considering their limited interactions unless he was to base his conclusions solely on her response, which was defensive but not overly so. She seemed to visibly relax, casting a shadow of doubt on Sherlock’s own deduction. “I don’t know, by the way.”

“You don’t know what?” she asked as she stood up and pulled her shirt up so it was no longer tucked it. She took her seat again and began to unbutton the sleeves of the white dress shirt and roll them up to her elbows. 

“I don’t know who the woman was.”

“Interesting.”

“If you say so,” he replied, mimicking her response from their previous conversation. 

“Oh, I say so. For someone who obviously prides himself on being so intelligent, don’t you think that you could at least know the name of the girl who took you home?” 

“Sarah.” 

“You said you didn’t know.” 

“Correct. I don’t know her. I know what her name is but before last night we had never met: I do not know her.” He smirked at her, hoping that his attack of her own intellect would divert her from the main point of the conversation. 

“Mmmhmm,” she grumbled, standing to leave. 

Thatcher was not going to waste her night playing Sherlock’s game. She had been honest when answering his question about her sweater yet he seemed to delight in giving her the run-around when it came to giving his own answer. “When you feel like playing fair, Sherlock, you know where I live.” 

He let her leave without another word. He looked at the clock, worried at how quickly the day had gone by without his even noticing. To make matters worse, he had not been able to get any further on the riddle. He tapped his foot impatiently, snatching the paper from his desk and scanning the words again. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how much longer he sat there but before he could even stop himself, he was knocking on the door to Thatcher’s flat. 

 

“Come in,” her voice called up the stairs. He descended slowly, taking in his surroundings. He had been in the apartment before but only once. His curiosity had gotten the better of him when he took residence in B and Mrs. Hudson had obliged him. It was considerably smaller than this own unit but was decorated in a very similar style: same wallpaper throughout, countertops in the kitchen, fixtures in the bathroom. He stepped through the threshold of her sitting room to find her tying her sneakers and in a very different attire than before.

Thatcher loved to run. It was something that she had spent a lot of time and effort on to get to the point where she could enjoy it but it was worth it. Once she had reached the refuge of her empty flat, she realized just how empty it was. Though a run would only offer a small distraction, she knew it was better than none. She changed out of her work clothes and began searching for clothes to run in. Normally she would just wear shorts but it was a bit too chilly for that to be a feasible option. After checking through a couple drawers she was able to locate a pair of black running tights. She opted for a tank to wear on top, knowing that she was going to end up with some sort of pullover on and didn’t want to feel too bulky. The lime green jacket hanging in her closet would do. She gathered the rest of the things she would need and relocated to her couch when Sherlock knocked on her door. 

“Need a cup of sugar?” she queried, looking up as she began to tie the laces on the other shoe. 

“No, I need a fresh pair of eyes,” he replied, his hands held behind his back. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Sherlock looked her over. Though emotion and sentiment tended to be avoided at all costs, attraction and sexual desire were a biological response that not even he could ignore. She had a much slimmer build than her oversized clothes had initially suggested but had powerful legs. ‘ _She must have played sports. Volleyball. Softball, maybe._ ’ Had this interaction been taking place the day before, he knew that his body would be responding to the visual before him but with Lestrade’s visit had come something to focus his mind upon.

Thatcher leaned over a bit as if she was trying to catch a glimpse of what he was holding. “Well, I’m sorry but I need mine.”

Sherlock did not register the joke and continued on, “My newest case…a family ritual written in verse. I thought there might be something that I am overlooking.” 

“You’re asking me for help? Is that even legal?” she asked, standing and beginning to stretch. “Besides, I’m a bit busy at the moment.” 

“With?” 

“Going on a run.”

Thatcher motioned him up the stairs, following easily a few steps behind him. She locked the door and began heading towards leaving. “Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm. 

Instinctively, she jerked her arm out of his grip.  “What do you want, Sherlock?” Sherlock handed her the piece of paper and watched her read it over a few times. “Directions.” 

His hopes deflated. He didn’t need her to state the obvious, he needed something new. “To?”

“Not sure.”

“From?”

“A tree, I guess.”

“A tree?” he questioned, following her out the front door and onto the sidewalk. 

“Two or more, possibly. It mentions oak and elm-types of trees. Somewhere the two coexist in what sounds like close proximity…” she said, trailing off as she took a sequence of steps that seemed utterly strange. She motioned for Sherlock to stay where he was and when she had finished, she turned back to face him. “And what you’re looking for would be apparently in this general vicinity of the elm if I’m counting right.” 

She was right, they were relatively close together. Definitely not the kind of dispersal seen in parks where particular attention was paid to planning. It had to be natural. A wooded area. “Whose riddle is this anyway?” she asked.

“A man named Reginald Musgrave. Family secret.”

“Not much of a secret,” she said, handing him back the piece of paper. “Does his family have an estate?” 

“Why?”

“Might be a good place to start looking. I’ll see you later.” Thatcher turned and began jogging away from Sherlock. He watched her run for a few moments before hurrying back inside and rushing upstairs to call Lestrade.

 

After confirming the existence of a Musgrave family estate, he copied down the address and made plans to meet the Detective Inspector there shortly. A short time later Sherlock was comfortably seated in the back of another taxi, skimming through the emails that had come in that day. The trip took much longer than he anticipated but was feeling increasingly excited as he got closer.  

Though the staff that had been reported missing worked at Reginald’s home in London, there was a plot of land owned by the family. No one had lived there since the man’s grandparents had died but they did continue to keep up the house and grounds. On the edge of the land, there was a rather large, old oak tree. Once free of the taxi, he approached the area and his excitement dwindled realizing there was no elm. He paced in the area where the tree should have been, shaking his head. Lestrade and a few officers began to approach when they noticed his strange behavior but stopped when Sherlock yelled at them to stay back. He needed room to think, for his mind to expand and having the idiocy emanating from the police force so near would definitely not facilitate that. “An elm tree,” he said to Lestrade when he had finished pacing and walked over to meet the man. “Ask Musgrave about an elm tree.” 

Though confused, Lestrade pulled out his phone and called one of the other officers on site. Sherlock did not wait for an answer and instead walked back over to his previous position, looking up at the Oak. “Right there!” he called.  

“What?” Sherlock turned quickly to look at the man, wondering if he had gone mad. 

“An elm. There was one right where you’re standing. Apparently it died when he was a boy and they had it removed from the land.” 

“Oh, clever girl…” Sherlock said, grinning uncontrollably now. 

“Who?” Lestrade asked, following him quickly.

“My new neighbor,” he responded, beginning to count out the steps as they were laid in the ritual and as he had observed Thatcher do on the sidewalk. Right before him was the doorway to what was apparently being used as a work shed for the gardeners. There didn’t appear to be anything out of place among the tools. He turned to walk back out when he realized there was a height difference in the floor. The floor itself was a series of stone slabs placed together to form a flat surface. He looked down. Carpet. Thin outdoor carpeting had been cut and placed like a mat on the floor. Moving the edge with his foot, the stone slab underneath had an iron ring  on it. “Lestrade, help me,” he said to the detective standing just outside the door. Sherlock pulled up on the ring and with Lestrade’s help was able to open it. However, as soon as it was open both men almost dropped it shut again when they were met with a foul odor. Beneath the floor was a short staircase leading down into a cellar and at the foot of the stairs was a body. “I’m guessing that is one of the people we’re looking for.” Lestrade yelled out for his officers to hurry in and once they had been able to prop it open, Sherlock removed himself from the scene. 

He took a deep breath of the fresh air and let out a laugh that caught the officers around him by surprise. After all, it wasn’t exactly normal for someone to be laughing after discovering a dead body. “That clever girl…” he repeated while shaking his head, pleasantly surprised that Thatcher was proving to be far more useful to him than he had expected.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher needs a drink. Sherlock accompanies her to the bar and they run into someone she would rather avoid.

It was a full week before Thatcher found herself in Sherlock’s company again. She wasn’t surprised when she returned home after her run and found that he was gone. For the few days following, Thatcher had ended up going in early to work as well as staying late so by the time she returned home she was too tired to venture upstairs and sink the last of her energy into putting on a poker face.  So her evenings had consisted mostly of long hot showers and falling asleep in bed while reading and his absence went mostly unnoticed. Her new advisors had literally thrown her back into her work, for which she was endlessly thankful. Before coming, she wasn’t sure that she would ever want to finish her thesis but this move had so far proved to be the right one. As the weekend approached and Sherlock was still been gone from his flat, she began to get worried. On that Friday night she listened carefully for the door, hoping to catch him as he came in. However, the only person who entered the building that night was Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh, don’t worry about Sherlock,” she reassured Thatcher. “He often goes off for days on end. Keep your eyes on the paper. I’m sure as soon as something pops up he’ll find his way home.” 

She didn’t have to wait long. The sound of the front door opening and shutting woke Thatcher from her light sleep the next night. Her copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland rested on her chest and a copy of Friday’s paper laid next to her in bed. She blinked a few times, attempting to wake herself a bit more. The next sound that met her ears was that of footsteps up the stairs. She scrambled quickly out of bed and hurried up her own. “Sherlock?” she called when she reached the top. 

The wood on the landing creaked under his feet as he took a step back to look over the rail. He was surprised that she had come after him. “Hello,” he replied flatly before turning away again and walking into his own flat. He removed his long overcoat, scarf, and suit jacket and laid the articles across the arm of his couch. 

“Where have you been?” she demanded, standing in his doorway. It was clear that she had been awoken by his arrival, not waiting. Her tone and expression suggested worry on his behalf but he couldn’t imagine why. 

“Country,” he answered in the same tone, practically ignoring her existence. Frustrated, Thatcher stepped into the flat and approached him. 

“Next time can you let me know when you plan on disappearing for a couple days? Especially after the last thing we speak about ends up in the papers as the report of a murder-suicide!” 

“You didn’t ask,” he replied with a shrug while taking a seat in the leather armchair. He observed her carefully as she obviously ran through a dialogue in her mind, attempting to figure out what to say next. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and pink running shorts. ‘ _She’s not dating anyone. No one would dress so comfortably to bed when they are in a new relationship, still trying to impress each other_.’ 

Thatcher shook her head, already tired of their conversation. “I’m going back to bed.”

“You were right,” he told her quietly. 

“I know,” she said, continuing on her way back downstairs. 

 

Though the two did not go out of their way to avoid each other, it just so happened that their paths did not often cross. Sherlock kept very strange hours and Thatcher did not. From Monday to Friday she had a specific routine and was very cross when she couldn’t keep to it. After only one confrontation, Sherlock had decided that it would be much better that when he was leaving or coming back in the wee hours of the morning to take a little extra care not to wake her. He was not surprised by her confrontation and outburst of anger: this response was not a new one for Sherlock to receive though her threat was.

“Sherlock, you realize that I am a scientist right? I could do incredibly terrible things to you and hide the crime so well that only you could figure it out but you'd be dead so it’d be too late.” He laughed lightly under his breath, remembering that night. He had gone out in search of distraction as he had a couple weeks before but thought that by returning that night instead of staying away until the morning, he could avoid running into her. However, that had obviously not been the case. 

“Do you want to go get a drink with me?” 

The question jolted Sherlock from his previous train of thought. He glanced up from his laptop screen, his mind running through all the various responses he could give. Thatcher had changed from her work clothes into a pair of well-fitting jeans and a navy blue shirt that was hanging off her right shoulder. As she invited him along she was pulling on her peacoat and buttoning it. 

“I don’t drink," he lied easily. 

“Bullshit,” she called, finishing the buttons on her jacket. “Look, we both know that you go out and I need a drink. You don’t have to stay all night and you by no means have to buy. Please just show me where I can get a drink.” 

When he didn’t move, she shrugged. “Fine. American girl wondering around London alone and  trying to find alcohol…I’m sure I can find someone to accompany me.” 

Sherlock sighed and shut his laptop. She was already at the bottom of the stairs when he called out to her. “Wait.” 

 

They walked side by side on the sidewalk, both with their hands hidden in coat pockets. “Are you dating anyone?” she asked after a minute or so of silence. Thatcher was fairly certain she knew the answer to her own question but felt compelled to inquire anyway.

“No," he replied shortly.

“Ah.” 

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” She smirked as she spoke but did not dare to look up at him. 

“Dating anyone,” Sherlock finished. As they approached a cross street, he pulled his left hand out of his coat and brought it to rest on the small of her back, steering her to the right to continue on their path.

“No. Remember, I just broke up with someone.” she answered somewhat testily. He was momentarily unsure of whether his physical contact or the question was the cause but quickly settled on the mention of her relationship considering she had not flinched whatsoever or reacted adversely to his touch. “Besides, I don’t really have time for dating.” 

“You’ve stayed very busy.” 

“Keen observation. That’s how I like it.”

As they continued their trek, Sherlock did not remove his hand from her back until he was holding the door to the pub open for her. He told her to find a table and that he would take care of their first round. Though he was not gone long, by the time he made his way through the crowd over to her, he could tell something was making her uncomfortable. His pace quickened slightly and when he reached the table, she retrieved her drink from him eagerly. Once he had a free hand, Thatcher grabbed it  with her own and tugged it lightly. 

He furrowed his eyebrows at her, utterly baffled. "Sit down," she whispered, her mouth barely moving.

Sherlock did as he was requested and claimed the seat immediately to her left instead of choosing the one directly across from her like he had planned. Once he was seated, her hand met his again and when his gaze moved to meet her own, she was leaning in. Her lips almost resting on his right ear, she muttered, "Kiss me."

She moved back far enough so their eyes could meet and as soon as they did, her own darted to the left. He followed the direction and very quickly saw what she was focused on. A young man, standing in a group of approximately six individuals, was staring at her. He was younger than Sherlock, around Thatcher's age. His appearance was well-kept and suggested he was successful in his career. 

“No," Sherlock replied observing her once more. Panic flashed briefly across her face but he continued speaking. “Consulting detective is my title, not boyfriend-for-hire." 

"You owe me," she replied through clenched teeth. 

Sherlock was well aware of what she was referring to. He sighed and made a mental note to refrain from asking her for help the next time his brain was blocked. From the corner of his eyes he could see the man was still eyeing them. He moved closer to her, their face only inches apart now. "Bite your lip," he directed as he stroked her cheek gently with his thumb. 

Thatcher did as she was told, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth. When she released it, Sherlock found himself unable to keep from staring at her now slightly swollen lip and tracing it lightly with his thumb. "Anyone can kiss," he spoke into her ear. "Intimacy is much more infuriating than lust."

He let his lips brush hers ever so slightly as he moved to sit back. By all accounts, anyone observing them would notice their bodies angled toward one another, his arm draped across the back of her chair and her hand resting on his knee. "He's coming over," Sherlock informed her as he took a drink of his scotch. Thatcher resisted the urge to down her own in one gulp and enjoyed the burn in her throat. 

"Thatcher Greene...how in the world did you get out of the country?" He was American, though his accent suggested a different region than Thatcher. Judging by the brightness of his teeth, darkened pigment of his skin, and apparently designer clothes, Sherlock would guess Southern California. 

"Blake! It's lovely to see you. And speak for yourself! I thought Berkley had you for another two years?" She greeted, standing a bit to return a polite kiss on the cheek. 

"They did. But what can I say? Oxford made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You're at Bart's, right?" Sherlock, apparently going completely unnoticed by Blake, took the opportunity to gather more information. Thatcher was clenching her jaw and her smile was forced; she was obviously uncomfortable.   _Was this the man that drove her to London?_  

"Yeah, just a couple weeks now. Where in the world have my manners gone...Blake, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Blake Williams."

Sherlock stood to shake Blake's hand, not to be polite but rather to remind the man that he was taller. "Pleasure," Blake greeted with a firm shake. "So how do you two know each other?"

"Neighbors," Thatcher replied as Sherlock sat again, his right arm moving back into position across the back of her chair. Her mind blanked momentarily when she realized his fingers were stroking the bare skin of her shoulder. "Sherlock lives in the flat above me."

"Ah, well then I trust you've been keeping an eye on her,” Blake said, his eyes barely moving from Thatcher as he spoke.

"Both," Sherlock replied coolly. When the man looked at him in surprise he smirked, relishing the response. People generally were much too easy for him to poke and prod but that didn’t make it any less of an enjoyable activity. 

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your drinks. I’ll see you around, Thatch.” Blake said, his gaze once more lingering on her. She nodded in response and offered a small smile. 

“What is your ex doing here?” Sherlock inquired once Blake had returned back to his group of friends.

“Why must you assume that he is my ex?” Thatcher asked after knocking back the rest of her drink. 

“Isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” she replied sullenly. 

“He still has feelings for you,” Sherlock admitted, watching her closely. 

“I doubt that.”

“Why? You should have seen the way he was staring. He can’t keep his eyes off you. Clearly indicative of an emotional attachment.” 

“Emotional attachment doesn’t mean that they are good emotions.” Thatcher knew the conversation would not stop until Sherlock got the confirmation he wanted. “I’m sure he’s found out what happened and was going to rub it in my face…”

“What happened?”

“Blake and I dated throughout college. When I started graduate school, he began medical school. We broke up. Not much to tell, really."

Sherlock tucked Thatcher's blonde locks behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her neck. She felt a shiver run down her spine. "You don't have to play along anymore, he’s gone," she told him breathlessly. 

"I'm not playing," he lied easily. “Besides, he’s still watching. Tell me what happened."

She wasn't sure if it was the burn from the scotch, the tingle from his cool fingers on her neck, or the look in his eyes, but it was working on her. "I fell in love with someone else."

His fingers dug lightly into the back of her neck as he pulled her toward him. Sherlock thought that she might have at least put up some resistance but there was none. They both completely met one another's expectations: Sherlock's kiss was insistent but gentle; Thatcher's lips were soft and eager. As the kiss ended, they rested their foreheads against each other's. She wanted to kiss him again, feeling a pull growing deep in her body. It had been a feeling that had been absent for quite a while and he was reminding her of how much she enjoyed it. 

"Let's get out of here," he suggested, his eyes moving towards the door. 

"Good idea," she answered. They stood together and Sherlock pulled her coat off the back of her chair, offering it to her. She smiled and turned her back, slipping first her left arm and then her right into the garment. She buttoned it while he pulled on his own overcoat and reached for his scarf. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped the scarf around the back of his neck and pulled the free ends through the opposite loop as she had watched him do earlier. 

"After you." He motioned for her to lead the way and once she was in front of him, his hand found the small of her back as he followed closely behind. The cold night breeze stung their alcohol- and hormone-driven flushes as they stepped out onto the street. They hadn't gone far when he snaked his hand around her waist, pulling her close against his own body and kissing her softly on her temple. They walked in sync and silence, neither quite sure what to do with the other. 

Thatcher rested her head on his arm as they got closer to their building. Though she felt sure that this was still some sort of act, it didn't mean that she wasn't enjoying it. The walk home seemed to be much shorter than she remembered. Sherlock turned the knob and held the door open for her. They stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to Sherlock’s flat, neither one able to meet the other’s eyes. He ran his fingers lightly across her forehead, moving her bangs out of her face. “Do you want to come up?” he asked, his fingers finding the back of her neck again. He wanted nothing more than to pull her close and kiss her again. If he was being truly honest to himself, he wanted to do much more than just kiss her. 

“I would love to…but I think it would be better if I didn’t.” Thatcher answered, biting her lower lip. Sherlock felt his heart pounding a little harder in his chest, staring at her lips. He leaned down and kissed her before she could stop him. “Sherlock, we can’t.” She muttered in protest but could not stop from kissing him back. 

“You’re right,” he said, breaking their kiss. He shoved his hands back into the pockets of his coat and took a step back from her. 

“I know,” she replied, sighing audibly. “Goodnight Sherlock.” 

Thatcher turned from him, pulling her keys out of her pocket to unlock her door. She knew that if she didn’t walk away now that they could end up doing something they would both regret. ‘ _Well, I’m not sure that he would regret it…_ ’ she thought, looking back at him before shutting the door behind her and going downstairs.  

“Goodnight Thatcher.” Once her door had shut, Sherlock began up to his own flat. After removing his coat, he walked through the kitchen to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable. When he re-entered the living room a few minutes later, he was disappointed fleetingly that she was not there. Deciding that she had made the right decision to not join him, he picked up his violin and bow and paced through the sitting room for a few moments. He usually could not care less about his relationships but there was something different. The more he pondered on it the more he came to realize that he cared for her much in the way that he cared for Mrs. Hudson or DI Lestrade. These people were fixtures in his life and he wanted it to stay that way. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he played his first note.

Thatcher had decided to just slip off her jeans and coat before crawling into her cold bed. She was both angry and proud but mostly lonely as a tune drifted down, lulling her to sleep. “You need a friend much more than you need a fuck,” she reminded herself sternly. Still, as she turned to lay on her side and curl her knees up toward her chest, she could still feel where he had touched her neck…where he had kissed her. Try as hard as she might, they would not go away and her mind decided instead to replay the night’s events. ‘ _Perhaps it will end differently in my dream_ ,’ she thought as she drifted off, sleeping finally claiming her.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes Thatcher a tempting offer.

Thatcher woke earlier than usual the next morning. The events that had transpired the night before were not the first things to register in her mind as the fog cleared but they were definitely in the first five. ' _What day is it? Sunday. I don't have to work today. Sherlock and I kissed last night. I'm going on a run._ ' She wasted no time getting ready, opting for a pair of black running pants instead of shorts and making sure to grab a sweater. She stretched and tried to plan her run in her mind. Where did she feel like going today? An answer did not come immediately to mind so Thatcher decided that she would let her feet decide where to take her. 

Pulling out her phone, she scrolled aimlessly through her music before settling on an upbeat alternative song. She nodded her head lightly in time with the song and began, heading in the opposite direction of the bar they had gone to. Between the music blasting in her ears and the hypnotizing rhythm of her run, Thatcher's mind was able to blissfully empty itself. 

Sherlock did not sleep nearly as well as his neighbor. He played for much longer than he had planned and only stopped when the strain in his arms became unbearable. He collapsed in his favorite chair, trying to block himself from remembering but it only worked momentarily. He could forget for a few seconds and then it would resurface just as quickly as it had disappeared. He considered his options carefully: going to sleep was always an option, though not a particularly appealing one; go back out, find someone who would tell him yes; or try to convince Thatcher to reconsider his offer. After almost a full minute Sherlock decided on sleep. It was not his first choice but of the three was the most logical at that moment. As he laid in bed, an idea came to settle on his mind. In the past whenever Sherlock had a biological urge to satiate, it was easiest to find someone who was looking for the same thing he was: a one-night stand with someone you wouldn’t have to see again. 

He had dated a few girls during his time at university but none of the relationships had lasted-the girls became too needy or insecure and would demand much more of his time than he was willing to give. “You’re not husband material,” the girl had cried. Thinking back, he couldn’t for the life of him come up with her name though they had dated for over a year. “You’re terribly moody, rude, and you never think before you open your bloody mouth!” Sherlock only had to be scolded mercilessly twice before he called off the practice altogether.  He soon after discovered that as long as the girls he chased were not in his own department that it was rather easy to shag them and then never see them agai so he continued. Through his method he was able to hone his skills and never have to go home to meet any parents.  

The only flaw had been exerting the effort to find the girls when his time could be put to much better use elsewhere. After graduating, he discovered a few like-minded individuals and they came to an agreement: casual sex with no strings attached. Much to his pleasant surprise, it had worked. The women were excellent about holding up their end of the deal: neither of them ever came to him even once to discuss their relationship progressing to anything further or confessing any hidden feelings.  This arrangement worked well for Sherlock because he hadn’t come across the urge to take part in either of those conversations.  Sure, if he was being completely honest with himself, he could have imagined marrying one of these two women had he not long ago sworn off the idea. Sherlock Holmes would forever stay a bachelor and this was a fact of life he had made peace with long ago. 

These last two women he had a “relationship” with ended things on good terms, for which he was grateful. The first, Wendy, had been introduced to him at a Christmas party. They shagged for the first time that night and continued doing so over the next year. Violet, the second, had come to him after finding his website and inquiring his help. This relationship was much more unexpected than the first and did not begin as his idea. As a rule, he did not want to engage in that behavior with a client but she was very persistent and he had grown to admire her. Strangely enough, both of these women left his company because they had found someone else. As he laid alone in bed that night, he could vividly remember being told they had met someone else and that it was getting serious. Wendy married her guy and had even invited Sherlock to the wedding. He declined and sent a card in his place. Violet, however, had not gotten the fairytale she had anticipated. 

Violet later confided that after meeting and falling for her prince charming that she became pregnant. At first, the father-to-be seemed quite excited and began talking of marrying her. However, as the months wore on she became suspicious and once again enlisted Sherlock’s help. Normally it was the kind of project he refused but for Violet and her unborn child, he made an exception. The prat was, of course, cheating. He was also married with two previous children. Heart broken, Violet had the child up for adoption. Though not an open arrangement, she still received regular updates from the girl’s adoptive family and as ever-so-thankful for how she felt she had made the right decision. Sherlock kept in touch with both but had seen neither for at least a year. Instead of seeking out a new partner, he decided a little variety would be good for him and had gone back to finding women as he needed them. 

This practice was growing tiresome, and was becoming not nearly as gratifying.  His mind drifted back to Thatcher. “Good physical health. Intelligent. Keeps to herself. Attractive. Good body.” He listed the pros, surprised to find so many. 

He could practically hear her tell him that she wasn’t looking for a relationship after just getting out of one (a _pro_ , in his mind) but he did recognize the danger it could lead to considering the inclination women seemed to have in immediately finding another relationship after one ends ( _con_ ). The convenience of her living so close was appealing ( _pro_ ) but should they end things on bad terms, it could become quite difficult to live in the same building ( _con_ ).  It didn’t take much more to convince him once he began to think back over his pro’s list, stopping at the ‘attractive’ and ‘good body’. Behind his closed eyes he could picture her perfectly. She was very slim with average sized breasts; long, dishwater-blonde hair; blue eyes; and lips that he could only imagine what they could do. His heart rate elevated and an increasing stiffness in his pajama trousers only further confirmed his suspicions: He wanted her. 

Sherlock knew that this would be a challenge: if he was responsible for another tenant moving out that Mrs. Hudson would be less than pleased and Thatcher would have to agree completely with his requirements or it would not work. He decided to pose the arrangement to her soon. Either way he would have a resolution to his problem and his mind could move on. Satisfied with where his train of thought had ended, he checked the time on his phone. An hour had passed and it was getting close to the morning. As usual when he found himself awake at this time of night, Sherlock wondered if he would just be better off staying awake and postponing his sleep until the following night but tonight, the answer was a definite no.  

He did not wake until around five hours later. He blinked a few times, clearing the sleep from his eyes and trying to register what exactly it was that had woken him. ‘ _The door…was it a knock? Why would anyone be calling at this hour?_ ’ He scrambled quickly from his bed and hurried to the sitting room, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had decided to wake him at such an ungodly hour. There was no one there. Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned his head to look both ways down the street. There was very little he could observe but a figure moving a rapid pace in his peripheral vision caught his attention. 

“Thatcher,” he muttered under his breath, realizing the noise he heard was the door shutting behind her as she left for a morning run. The duration of her runs varied and made it extremely hard for Sherlock to attempt and discern her pattern. He turned from the window after realizing the growing problem he had avoided the night before was not nearly as yielding this morning. He sulked off to the bathroom for a long, hot shower, shedding his pajamas easily along the way. 

  

“What brings you in today, Ms. Greene?” 

Thatcher pulled the earbuds out of her ears and smiled at the security guard. “Feeling motivated today so I thought I’d try and channel some energy into work,” she said as she pulled her I.D. out to confirm her identity. St. Bart’s was very thorough as far as security was concerned which she found to be quite comforting. 

“Well I won’t hold you any longer, then. Have a good day.” He handed her the thick plastic card back with a smile. 

“You too!” she responded, already starting down the hall toward her lab. On her first day of work the halls and stairways had been rather confusing but now it felt like habit going down two flights of stairs and around three different corners. Her lab was located a few doors down from the mortuary but it didn’t bother her. Instead, she had found a fast friend in one of the pathologists, Molly Hooper. As she walked by, she stopped for a moment and poked her head in to see if Molly was working but it appeared to be empty of any living occupants. 

Using her I.D. card again, she swiped it quickly through the card reader on the door and pulled it open immediately as the indicator light turned green and it unlocked. Thatcher pulled her sweater over her head and threw it across the back of the nearest chair. It had been a challenging run and the cool air of the lab felt incredible against her flushed skin. She spun slowly in a circle, her gaze taking in everything surrounding her. Everything was just how she had left it on Friday afternoon. She reached for her composition book and flipped to the last page she had been working on. Before leaving for the day, she glued pictures of the results of her latest gel electrophoresis assay into the book but had left before finishing writing her analysis. “Well, that’s probably a good place to start,” she told herself, reaching for a pen. 

Thatcher’s head shot up, her train of thought instantly broken as the intercom beeped impatiently at her. She pushed off from the table she sat at and rolled her way over to the adjacent table. “Yeah?” she answered, holding down the ‘Talk’ button.  

“Ms. Greene, there is someone here to see you but they don’t have a valid I.D. Are you expecting anyone?” 

She checked the time on clock on the wall opposite from her. It had been almost two hours. She racked her mind but was not able to think of any appointments that she had set up, especially considering it was a Sunday. “Not that I can remember….” she began but added quickly,  “But I may have just forgotten to write it down. Who is it?” 

“A man named Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Uh…” she froze. _Why in the world had he come to visit her? How had he even known that she was here?_ “Yes, he’s alright. I must have just forgotten. Go ahead and point him along the way and I’ll go and collect him.”

“Thank you, Ms. Greene.” 

Thatcher hopped out of her seat and hurried out of the lab, her mind moving almost as fast as her feet. She rounded the last corner before the stairs and found him standing at the door to the mortuary, looking in interestedly through the small windows. “Sherlock?”

He straightened and turned towards her. “Thatcher,” he responded. 

“What are you doing here? How did you know I was even here?” 

This was not the greeting Sherlock had expected. Though he certainly did not expect her to jump his bones, her greeting was far colder than he anticipated. Before he could answer, she continued speaking. “I don’t even know why I’m asking, I already know the answer. I’m sure there is some obscure thing I’ve done that has given you the impression that I would be here.”

“Hardly,” he said. “The door woke me up. I thought someone was stupidly calling at the early hour but when I looked outside no one was there but you were beginning your run.” 

“Ah. Stalking…much less creepy,” she responded before motioning for him to follow her. They walked silently to her lab, side by side. He was making sure to walk closer and even allowing their hands to brush lightly as he followed her. 

"This could hardly be considered stalking," he told her, holding the door to her lab open for her once she had scanned her card. He removed his coat and scarf and laid them over the back of the same chair where her sweater lay discarded. Even though he had come to speak to her about one topic only, he was distracted by the instruments around him as well as how comfortable she seemed among it all. Thatcher was engrossed in her writing as he paced slowly around the room, his fingers dragging lightly along the edge of the work bench. 

"So if you're not stalking me, what are you doing here?" She had stopped writing and was focusing her attention on him. 

"I thought it might be a good idea for us to talk about last night."

Thatcher froze and felt her heart beat hard against her chest. This had literally been the one thing she had been hoping to avoid and considering what she knew of his personality, figured that it wouldn't have been a problem. ' _Deny, deny, deny..._ ' 

"What about it?" She asked as casually as possible, moving from her notebook to examine a slide under the nearest microscope. When he didn't answer her, she looked up. He was gingerly touching the clean glassware littering the counter next to the sink, just waiting to be put away in their proper place. 

"Is there any way that I could get access to this lab?" He blurted out.

Thatcher snorted, not even bothering to hide the amused smile on her face. "For?"

"There's some research I've been wanting to conduct and it would be much easier here than at Baker Street," he replied, clutching his hands together behind his back. "Well, maybe not easier but I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would much rather it not being done at Baker Street."

"I'll see what I can do but no promises. I think as long as I'm here and you keep me in the loop on what you're working on, it would be fine. "

"I don't mind being supervised if you don't mind doing the supervising." 

Thatcher laughed again, shaking her head at his reply. "Sure. So is that what you wanted to talk to me about?" Relief was flooding her system. It would be relatively easy to get Sherlock permission. All she would have to do is list him as one of her interns. The thought of making him fill out paperwork declaring her as his superior was possibly even more satisfying to imagine than reliving the kiss they had shared only hours ago. 

"No but I must say, I'm even happier with the decision to come now." He answered, a small smile playing uncharacteristically across his lips.  

"Oh," her own smile faded. Apparently she wasn't going to get out of this as easily as she had hoped. "Then what is it? I really should be getting back to my work..."

Sherlock had finished pacing around the lab and stood across the workbench from her. He looked about as uncomfortable as she felt but it apparently wasn't enough to deter him from talking about it anyway. "We kissed." 

"I thought there was supposed to be a question?" 

"How do you feel about the fact that we kissed?" He elaborated, frowning at her. He could tell his assumption that she would be difficult was going to be correct. Her discomfort was not a good sign that he was going to be successful in convincing her. 

"Confused," she answered after a moment. "I mean, not the first time...technically I suppose I asked for that one. But, at the stairs after we arrived home..."

"You kissed me back," he stated matter-of-factly, crossing his arms across his chest. 

"That doesn't mean I'm not confused by the fact that it happened...besides, that is not the point. If we're going by that logic, you kissed me first."

"And?" 

"Well how does that make you feel?" She retorted, crossing her own arms, mimicking his posture. 

"Confused," he answered, the smile falling slowly from his lips. 

"You're confused? Should I be honored?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her, hoping she would take his silence as denial. Instead of waiting for an answer, she had gone back to writing in her notebook. He made his way around the desk between them to stand behind her, his arms outstretched on both sides of her, resting on the edge of the desk. He could feel her tense but her muscles relaxed again after a few moments. "You don't confuse me. You are simple. The fact that you intrigue me is what confuses me."

Thatcher could feel his breath on her neck. He was much too close for her to feel comfortable and he knew it. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Sherlock, I'm not a puzzle for you to solve." 

' _But you could_ ,' she thought, not daring to say the words out loud. It had been a few months since her last relationship had ended. The touch of a man was not something she had expected to crave but now that she was being reminded of how alluring it could be, it was a need she was having trouble silencing. 

"But I could," he whispered, turning her chair around to face him. She cursed the chair she had so gleefully spun around in on her first day, that she had claimed as 'her chair'. 

"Relationships don't really sound like your forte," she said, keeping her voice as even as possible. 

"I never said anything about a relationship. I think of it more as an arrangement."

Whatever hope she had feeling was squashed immediately and he could see it in her eyes. "I've never been one for casual sex, Sherlock," she spat, pushing passed him and breaking whatever spell he had on her. 

Sherlock's eyes closed briefly, analyzing. He was losing control, she was going to say no. "Then you've obviously never tried it." He could hear her scoff lightly from across the room but when he continued speaking he could see her body turn ever-so-slightly towards him; she was still listening. "Sex when you need it. No fights, no breakups. The problem people have comes when one enters into this kind of arrangement with different expectations than the other...one wants to change the other or fall in love. It inevitably ends with one broken heart and two lonely people. But that doesn't mean that it has to." 

Thatcher twirled a lock of her hair absently between her fingers as her mind registered what he was saying. She couldn't meet his eyes with her own but did let them wander over his tall frame and his sharp facial features. He stepped towards her, slowly closing the distance she had placed between them. Sherlock moved slowly, giving her ample time to escape should she want to. But instead of running from him, she turned to face him and stepped backwards slowly until her back was against counter behind her. He placed his arms back on either side of her and leaned closer to whisper in her ear. "You just got out of a relationship; I don't want one. You could never love me; I will never love you. You want me and I want you. It doesn't get much simpler than this, Thatcher." 

She closed her eyes, her hands coming to rest on the soft fabric of his button-up. Though the idea initially repulsed her, the way he said her name sent a chill down her spine. "I don't know, Sherlock," she said softly. "We're neighbors." 

"Convenient, huh?" 

"What if it doesn't work out?"

"I already told you-it only doesn't work when expectations are different."

"What about the..."

"Sex? I sincerely doubt that would be the cause of any potential problems." Sherlock could have laughed. He was almost there. He ran his hands up her arms over her shoulders until he reached her neck. He felt her squirm as his left hand took its increasingly familiar place at the nape of her neck, pulling her to him and closing the small space that was left between them. He kissed her urgently, feeling something similar to worry. He didn't want her to say no; didn't want this to be their last kiss. Relief washed over him when she kissed him back, her body responding eagerly. Whether she told him yes or no, her body had already given him her real answer. 

Ending their kiss, Sherlock straightened up and took a step back from her. "Think about it. Let me know." Thatcher leaned against the counter, not trusting her knees to hold her up. She watched him pull his coat and scarf on and walk back out her lab as calmly and unexpectedly as he had come.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher considers her options and a new client visits Baker Street.

"They never warn you about this kind of thing," Thatcher mused with a sigh as she heaved herself up onto one of the unoccupied examination tables in the morgue. She hadn't been able to do much work after Sherlock left, her mind running constantly over his proposition. Her half-hearted attempt at working only continued for about half an hour before she was hurrying down to see if her friend had come in to work, desperate for advice.               

"What?" Molly asked as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves, preparing to perform an autopsy. "Are you sure you want to stay for this?"

"Sure, go ahead. I'm not squeamish. And Sherlock Holmes." Thatcher pushed her fingers through her hair, leaning forward a bit to get a better view as Molly made her initial incision.  

"I've heard of him," Molly said excitedly, glancing up from the body of a middle aged man. 

"Really? How?"

"Well, occasionally we have to do work on victims involved in criminal cases. A few of the detectives were speaking about him, though I can't say they were saying good things. One of them kept calling him a freak."

"Yeah, that's him," Thatcher said with a laugh. "He definitely has a way of making impressions on people."

"Is he really a freak?" Molly inquired as she inserted the spreader to open the man's chest cavity. 

"Smoker, eh?" Thatcher hopped down from the examination table and moved in to get a better look at the heavily scarred, blackened lungs. "Ten bucks says he's got cirrhosis of the liver, too."

Molly pulled the cavity open a bit further, searching for the other organ. Once she quickly located it, she placed her hands underneath, almost propping it up a bit for Thatcher to get a better view. "Knew it," she affirmed a bit too happily, smiling at the other woman. 

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess. I mean, someone with that much damage to his lungs must have done quite a bit of smoking. People usually don't have just one vice. Heavy smoker, heavy drinker." Thatcher shrugged as she explained and made her way towards the door. "And no, I don't think he's a freak. "

"So what are you going to do?" Molly asked quickly, looking up from the body. 

"I don't know. I'll let you know." Thatcher gave a small wave of goodbye, knowing she should leave Molly to do her work. When she had made it back to her lab, she checked the time. If she left now she could take the long way home and have another run. She pulled her sweater back on and gathered her phone, keys, and I.D. The building was just as empty as it had been when she arrived. She said a small goodbye to the security guard and stepped out on to the street. It was a bit chillier than when she had arrived but after she began her run, she would warm up quick enough. This time she didn't put music on, deciding to listen to the hustle of the city around her. 

 

Sherlock was not sure how long he would have to wait for an answer. He told himself he wouldn't wait long for her to make up her mind and as he paced the sitting room in Baker Street, he felt his impatience growing by the moment. He stopped moving as a knock on the front door caught his attention. Mrs. Hudson hurried to answer the door, knowing better than to expect Sherlock to come down. 

"Hello? Can I help you?" 

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. It's urgent." _Female. Smoker_. Whoever she was, he had never met her before-her voice was not one he recognized. 

"Right this way, dear." 

Sherlock buttoned his suit coat and turned towards the stairs. "Sherlock, there's someone here to see you," Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, his newest client following closely behind the landlady. 

"Mary Sutherland," she said, offering her hand in greeting. He shook her hand briefly before motioning her to come in. He sat in the grey, beaten leather armchair as she sat opposite him.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Sutherland?" 

She hesitated before speaking again. "My boyfriend has gone missing." He skimmed over her appearance, barely listening at first. Mary Sutherland was rather plain by all accounts: mousy brown hair, brown eyes, nose too large for her face, uneven complexion-it was the girl's demeanor that was captivating. She spoke softly but surely, looking him in the eyes. 

"For how long?" he inquired, unbuttoning his suit jacket and crossing his legs. 

"About a week now." She was fidgeting. Sherlock watched as she quite literally twiddled her thumbs as her hands rested on her lap. 

"Have you gone to the police?" 

"No, I can't," Mary replied, a look of shame on her face. She watched him raise his eyebrows in surprise before continuing. "The thing is, we've never met. Well, in person. We met through a dating website."

Mary couldn't report her boyfriend missing because he might not have actually been missing. Sherlock felt a small twinge of something akin to pity as he watched her pull her phone out of her pocket. Instead of assuming the more likely conclusion that the man had simply decided to end their relationship, Mary had tried to comfort herself by interpreting his disappearance as foul play. 

"Why do you think he has gone missing instead of it just being the end of your relationship?" Shock replaced shame on Mary's face but returned quickly. 

"Because I believe him. We texted constantly...emailed. Everything. We were planning on meeting up but he never showed and hasn't been in touch with me since." 

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Well," she began, sighing lightly. "His name is Hosmer Angel. He works in Leadenhall Street. He's very sweet, kind... Actually uses correct grammar when he messages me. We both like the same books, movies, music... He's perfect."

"You're a blogger?" He asked a moment later, looking down at her hands again.

Mary's face flushed and a wide smile crossed her face. "You recognized me? I'm honored, Mr. Holmes. I didn't know my blog would interest someone like you." 

Sherlock smiled slightly, not bothering to correct her. He did not in fact, read her blog, but knew from the slight crease on her inner wrists where they had rested for long periods against the edge of a keyboard that it was highly likely her job was computer-heavy. Judging by the multiple piercings in both ears and the rather conspicuous tattoos littering her body, he felt confident that she was not an office worker so blogging from home was the next logical conclusion. "That's how we met, actually. I was writing a series of pieces about online dating and one of my friends suggested I actually sign up for one of the sites to get a better perspective. Hosmer was one of the men who I was matched with and the only one I actually felt a connection with. We exchanged emails, then phone numbers and began dating."

"Did anyone else know about your relationship?" Sherlock had around nine theories running through his mind as he asked. 

"My parents and a few close friends. I haven't posted about our relationship on my blog because I didn't want to jinx it...a lot of good that did." Mary sulked a bit lower in her seat. "Wildibanks was right."

"Wildibanks?" 

"My step-father. He had been warning me not to do the online dating. Though, to be honest it's hard to take someone seriously when they're less than six years your senior." 

"What does he do?"

"He works for a wine distributor. My mother married him about a year after my father passed away."

"What did your father do?"

"He owned and operated a plumbing company. Wildibanks convinced my mother to sell the business at what I'm pretty sure was a rather substantial loss."

Things were starting to fall into place in Sherlock's mind as he listened to her story. "There can't be much money in the distribution business...how are your parents financially?"

"Fine, I suppose." She looked uneasy, thinking of how to answer his question. "My uncle left me an inheritance since never having any children of his own. It's tied up in some account in New Zealand so I just draw the interest every month. Since I'm living at home I basically end up paying it in rent to help out around the house."

"I see," he said slowly, the possible theories whittling down to four. 

"They didn't want me to come see you today."

"Why is that?" Sherlock sat forward in his seat, four ideas becoming two.

"They just value privacy and their reputation. It's embarrassing, I suppose, having a daughter who can't even keep an online boyfriend."

He stood and walked briskly to his desk, searching for a piece of paper and a pen. Handing both items to her he asked,"Would you please write your contact information as well as that you have for Mr. Angel?"

"Of course," she replied, scribbling the information down both quickly and neatly. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Holmes. Hosmer means the world to me. I hope you can help me find him."

"I hope so too," he responded gently, motioning her towards the door. She muttered a small goodbye and left just as swiftly as she had come, the door closing quietly behind her. Sherlock moved to the window and watched Mary Sutherland walk slowly away from 221, eyes glued to her cell phone screen. He was about to turn back from the window when someone passed Mary at a sprint. It was Thatcher. 

As he watched her pull out a key for the front door, Sherlock wondered if he was going to get an answer from her so quickly. He felt paralyzed, listening intently to see if she was coming up the stairs. She didn't. He retired from the window and opened his laptop. There was a very important email that he needed to send before attending to his personal matters.

 

Thatcher leaned her back against the door after shutting it, contemplating the choices laid before her. She had yet to come to a decision and wasn't sure that seeing Sherlock would help her make the right one. Sighing, she walked slowly to her own door and shut it behind her once inside. She slipped her sneakers off at the bottom of the stairs and went straight to her bathroom for a shower. 

The stream of hot water relaxed her muscles and her mind. Tilting her head upwards and holding her breath, she let the water run over her face. Thatcher ran her fingers through her hair, took a small step backward and took a deep breath. Her body ran through the motions while her brain pondered the possibilities put before her. 

Sherlock was handsome and appeared to be fit from what she could tell. There was definitely something between them, though what it was she couldn't put her finger on. His proposition was definitely an appealing one but it did frighten her. Yes, she had gotten physical with her boyfriends but considered herself to be fairly inexperienced sexually. What if he didn't want her if he found out? 

_"Sex? I sincerely doubt that would be the cause of any potential problems."_ He obviously assumed a level of experience of her part and she didn't want to disappoint. She laughed softly at herself. What a problem to have. She had just finished rinsing the conditioner out of her hair when there was a ring at the door. Thatcher knew better than to assume Sherlock would answer the door even though he was the only one who regularly received visitors. She turned the water off and began drying off. The bell rang out again, this time for much longer. She didn't hear his deep baritone voice call for Mrs. Hudson and the sound of the landlady's scurrying feet was also missing. A groan of frustration escaped her lips as she pulled her robe off the hook on the back of the door and put it on quickly. 

"Coming!" She called up the stairs as the bell rang yet again. She stood on tip toe to look out the peephole. "Can I help you?" 

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. He requested I come by around this time." The man adjusted his tie impatiently as he answered. Thatcher pulled the door open careful to shield her body, not wanting to show all of Baker Street how she looked after a shower. Once he was in, she shut the door quietly and motioned for him to follow her up the stairs. 

"Sherlock, dear," she seethed through gritted teeth, mimicking the phrase she had heard Mrs. Hudson say every time she scaled the stairs to speak to the man. She could feel the visitor's gaze on her but did her best to ignore her impulse to slap him across the face. "You have a visitor." 

When they reached the landing Thatcher stopped short of the door, allowing whom she assumed to be his newest client to walk in ahead of her. Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, legs crossed and fingers steepled under his chin, though he stood hurriedly upon seeing her appearance. 

"Have a seat," Sherlock said in passing to the client as he gripped Thatcher's arm and pulled her into the kitchen. For a few seconds they just stood there, bodies nearly pressed against each other, their eyes locked. "Go to my closet. Put on a shirt." He spoke softly and pointed towards his bedroom. She stepped away but he grabbed her again and stopped her. "Only a shirt." 

They separated and Sherlock turned back to the stranger in his living room. "Mr. Wildibanks, thank you for coming on such short notice.” 

“Of course,” he replied with a nod, reaching out to return the handshake offered to him. “So sorry for…interrupting.” 

“Quite all right. Must have just lost track of time.” Sherlock said amiably with a small shrug.

“So, how can I help you Mr. Holmes?” Wildibanks inquired, sitting in the overstuffed arm chair. 

“Your step-daughter has paid me a visit today.” He watched to see if there were any changes in his facial expression or body language that would give him away but there was very little emotion on the man’s face except exasperation. 

“I should apologize for her. Her mother and I told her not to bother you with such a trivial matter but she obviously didn’t listen.”

“No apology necessary. You don’t think anything has happened to Mr. Angel?” 

“Of course not. I think he was some bloke she met online and he got tired of her. She didn’t speak to us about it much but I did see some of the messages that were sent between them; I got the impression she was far more invested in the relationship than he was.” Wildibanks ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course, you can’t ever say that. She’d be heartbroken.” 

“I see,” Sherlock responded. He glanced over the man’s shoulder at the sight of motion, wondering vaguely what had taken Thatcher so long. His breath hitched slightly as her figure came back into view. She had done exactly as he had asked, leaning against the doorway in the kitchen wearing only one of his button-ups. She had buttoned it completely except for two at the top and one at the bottom. Because of their height difference, the shirt was long enough to give her a certain degree of modesty but it clung to her damp skin in all the right places. 

Noticing Sherlock’s look, Wildibanks turned in his seat and ended up with a similar look of shock and appreciation as his eyes scanned her over. He tried to meet her eyes but her gaze was firmly set on Sherlock. “Are you coming?” she asked, her head tilted slightly to the right. The gesture made her feel a bit silly but if he wanted her to play the part, she was going to do it well.  

“In a moment,” he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. 

Wildibanks turned back, looking at the man in surprise. “Don’t let me keep you.” 

“It’s fine. She can wait.” He replied pointedly, throwing her a look. Sherlock could only hope that she understood; he needed her to push further and get more of a reaction from their guest. Depending on what kind of reaction her behavior elicited would be very telling and hopefully help him whittle down his theories from two to one. 

Thatcher narrowed her eyes at him, instantly annoyed at his response. She had not picked up on his signal and spoke her next words with the hope of making him regret declining her offer. “Don’t make me finish what you started without you,” she said, trying to make her voice match his tone as much as possible. She turned and walked back into his bedroom and Wildibanks let out a small chuckle. 

“Quite a handful,” he remarked with a sly smile. 

“You have no idea,” Sherlock replied, his eyes slowly moving from where she had been standing back to the man’s face. 

“You’re right. I don’t know why you’re choosing to be out here with me when there are much better-looking prospects vying for your attention.” 

“Need a break every now and then, right?” Sherlock had leaned in and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, smirking at Wildibanks. 

“Yes, yes…of course,” The wheels were turning in the man’s mind, it was plain to see. It was perhaps not as strong of a reaction as he had hoped for but it was still there. Though he had never seen the point in doing so, Sherlock was very aware that men had a tendency to bond with one another over mutual attractions. 

“Do you have one of your own?” Sherlock inquired, sitting back in his seat and crossing his legs comfortably. 

“I wish.” The answer was obviously not meant to be said out loud considering the sheepish look that crossed Wildibanks’ face but after a moment, he had shrugged the guilt off. “My wife is pretty in her own rite but not quite…youthful.” 

Sherlock nodded knowingly, becoming more confident in one of his theories. Before him sat a man who married an older woman, though he was clearly not attracted to her and at the first opportunity convinced her to sell her only means of income and claim it for himself. Once that money had run out, it would only be fitting to guilt his new step-daughter into chipping in with the bills around the house if she insisted on living at home. Hearing of her plan to begin online dating, it became clear that should the girl actually find someone that eventually their stream of income from her would cease. In an effort to keep control of the situation, Wildibanks had created the dating profile for the fictional Hosmer Angel and began communicating with Mary. He opened his mouth to confront the man with these facts but the words died in his throat as Thatcher entered his line of vision once again. 

This time, she did not limit herself to the entrance to the kitchen and walked purposefully through said kitchen and approached the men. “You’ll have to excuse Mr. Holmes, sir. He has a previous engagement that he seems to have forgotten about.” Sherlock had begun to stand and stop her but she gently pushed him back into his set and planted herself in his lap, straddling him. His hands instinctively went to her bare thighs, unable to stop himself from touching her. 

“Of course. Mr. Holmes, feel free to contact me again if you need anything else. I can see myself out.” Wildibanks stood slowly from his chair and moved towards the door, feigning embarrassment over being caught in the situation. He took his time leaving the room and descending the stairs, trying to keep an eye on the pair for as long as possible. 

Thatcher placed her arms around him, absently twirling the dark curls at the nape of his neck. “Moan,” she instructed, eyes locked with his. 

“What?” he asked reflexively, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. She leaned down and whispered the word in his ear and proceeded to plant soft kisses along the arch of his neck. He obliged, the sound leaving him before he could stop it. His grip on her tightened a bit as she sat up, abandoning the display of affection after the sound of the front door shutting reached them both; her request had not been for her own purposes but instead to finish their illusion shown to Wildibanks. 

“Very nicely played,” he complimented, not bothering to move his hands. He observed with great satisfaction that she did not further withdraw from her position in his lap and allowed his hopes to rise with the idea that this was her way of accepting him. 

“Thank you.”

Neither of them moved for many moments, apparently waiting to see how the other reacted before making their next move. “This doesn’t mean I’m saying yes,” Thatcher said quietly, extricating herself from his lap. “And I’m keeping this shirt.” Without another word, she walked confidently from the living room and down the stairs to return to her own flat. 

Sherlock watched her go in silence, allowing himself to smile once there was no chance of her seeing it. He didn’t care about the shirt, there were plenty more hanging in his closet. Plus if it meant seeing her that more often from now on, then the loss was well worth it. It was her first statement that ran through his mind pleasantly; it was a lie and they both knew it. “You already have said yes." 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher has an unexpected visitor who knows far more about her than she'd like.

"Mr. Wildibanks, thank you for meeting with me again. I should apologize for Thatcher..." Sherlock trailed off, waving his hand absently towards the armchairs that faced one another as they entered the sitting room. Though he had not been able to confront the man that day as originally planned, it wasn't long before he would have his chance: Wildibanks had eagerly accepted his invitation for another visit to Baker Street in the following week and from the look on his face at the mention of the woman, Sherlock needn't wonder why he had been so willing to return.   
  
Wildibanks smirked as he sat down in his seat. "As I said before, no apology is necessary Mr. Holmes."  
  
Sherlock bowed his head slightly and smiled, feigning appreciation of the man's understanding as he took a seat in his leather chair. "I don't mean to intrude on your time any longer than necessary, I just have a few questions."  
  
"Quite alright. I'll do my best to answer."  
  
"Can you tell me anything about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"   
  
"Not much. I only know what she's told me. Works in Leadenhall Street, does something with computers. They were supposed to meet in person but he never arrived. I warned her about that. That's all you ever hear about these days, women just being completely taken in by some fraud on the web. She deserves better." Wildibanks' speech might have come across as touching had it been said to anyone else.   
  
"Why not just stop her from going?"   
  
"I tried but there's not much more I can do from France."  
  
"You were out of town?" Sherlock was already sure his theory was correct but the confirmation of such was enjoyable.  
  
"Convenient, eh? She makes plans to see him when she knows I can't stop her. " Wildibanks was trying to give off the impression of prolonged frustration but it seemed much too rehearsed for Sherlock to believe. After all, if there truly was only six years difference between this man and Mary Sutherland, it was hardly enough of a gap to provoke such fatherly feelings on his part.  
  
"What about your wife?” Sherlock inquired after a waiting a moment.  
  
"Oh, she's a hopeless romantic. Thinks it all very charming. Well, not anymore." Sherlock had lost interest almost as soon as the man began speaking. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began typing very quickly, not bothering to fill the silence with a response. The message was a short one but if he was right, it would be a powerful one nonetheless. He pressed send and immediately glanced up from the screen, watching Wildibanks. When the sound of an email alert didn’t quickly reach his ears, he frowned and ran through all the possibilities of what he could have gotten wrong. In reality, this thought process only took about three seconds but in Sherlock’s mind it felt like an eternity. 

  
_Ding-ding._  Sherlock smirked at the sound, putting his own phone back into his jacket pocket as Wildibanks pulled his out from his pants pocket. The man’s eyes widened as he read the newly received email and wasted no time in following its directions. He stood without another word and rushed from the room, his footfalls only slowing on the ground floor, surely as he approached the front door. There seemed to be a small scuttle at the door as Wildibanks hurried out while Thatcher was beginning in. Sherlock could hear a polite greeting being uttered between the two but the man wasted no additional time in leaving. 

“What’s his problem?” Thatcher asked as she climbed the stairs, looking slightly frazzled by the encounter. 

“He got caught,” Sherlock answered shortly with a shrug. 

"Ah," she began, not taking long to catch on. "Another case solved then." He merely nodded in response, his eyes fixed on the screen of his computer, typing lazily with one hand. She watched him for a few moments, expecting him to look up and acknowledge her presence but it never happened. "What's with the cold shoulder?" 

"Not cold," he answered, still without looking up. 

Thatcher scoffed lightly and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Lukewarm?" 

"A man only need be rejected once." It was not at all the answer she expected. If anything, it was the opposite. She had not figured Sherlock Holmes to be a sensitive man but his categorization of her silence as rejection was suggesting otherwise. 

She sighed and shoved her hands into her pants pockets, "So this is my punishment, is it? The silent treatment? I know some people who would consider that a gift." 

"If I was punishing you, Miss Greene, you would know." Sherlock's fingers had gone still, his gaze now locked on Thatcher, waiting for any detectable reaction. She seemed to shrink a bit but continued to stare at him openly and a blush creeped into her cheeks that Sherlock noted with satisfaction. 

The idea of punishment had never been so appealing. In her limited experience, Thatcher had never been able to so much as let her partner hold her arms over her head without being unable to resist a giggle but the thought of being subjected to whatever Sherlock could come up with was causing her pulse to quicken and laughing no longer seemed like a viable option.  "Is that a threat?" She asked once she had found her voice again. 

"Only if you want it to be." 

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. She took a long, slow breath but it did nothing to clear her growing lightheadedness. "I have to go." 

Sherlock could barely contain his smirk as the woman turned without another word and made her way shakily down the stairs. His eyes went out of focus for a few moments, concentrating on listening to Thatcher's footsteps. She was moving slower than usual and fumbled uncharacteristically with her keys at the lock. He chuckled softly and went back to typing, promising himself that when he was finished he would pay her a visit. 

Once inside her flat, Thatcher dropped her things at the foot of the stairs and then froze. She looked over her environment, knowing something was out of place. As far as she could tell nothing was missing but it didn't feel right. Upon closer examination, she realized why: her things had been looked through and carefully placed back. Much more carefully than she would have done. The stack of journals on her sparse kitchen counter was intact but the edges much more aligned than she had left them. The cupboard door that she never remembered to close entirely, was now shut. Her first instinct made her look up, as if she would be able to see Sherlock's satisfied face through two floors. ' _No_ ,' she reprimanded herself. ' _This wasn't Sherlock. He wouldn't put your things back. If he were going to loot through the apartment he'd make no attempt to hide it._ ' 

When her feet finally felt unglued to the floor, she only made it a few steps before freezing again as the sound of her living room floor creaking reached her. It hadn't occurred to her that whoever had broken in would still be there. 

"Miss Greene?" The voice wafted through the doorway, the inflection of speech soft and clipped. Familiar somehow. She swallowed hard against the growing lump in her throat and stepped forward into the open doorway. A man she would guess to be about twice her age stood next to her unused fireplace, hands grasped neatly behind his back. He was dressed apparently comfortably in a full suit, and his thinning brown hair parted neatly on the left. "Please take a seat." 

Under normal circumstances Thatcher would have laughed at the audicity of a stranger telling her to sit in her own home but something about him stopped the thought from even entering her mind. She walked over to her couch and sat on the edge of the cushion furtherest from him. "I apologize for the inconvenience but when one is attempting to avoid the notice of Sherlock Holmes, social protocol is not a priority."

Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling again, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Avoiding his notice by breaking into an apartment just twenty feet below him?" 

"Yes. One never notices the things right under one's own nose." 

"Like a mustache." Thatcher said flatly, not bothering to hide her annoyance for the situation any longer. 

"Okay...yes, that is an example of something that goes unnoticed beneath someone's nose." The man's low opinion of her was obvious in his condescending tone. 

"Sherlock doesn't have a mustache."

He stared at her blankly. "Your point?"

"A man with a clean shaven face would notice the sudden appearance of a mustache." It wasn't a particularly eloquent way of making her point but he seemed to finally be catching on. 

"Yes, well, it would be best for him not to find out about this conversation. For him to not notice."  He turned slightly to reach for something on the mantle of the fireplace and Thatcher leaned in trying to get a better look at what had so easily escaped her notice: a rather thick looking office file. 

"You keep a file on Sherlock?" She asked, her eyebrows raised. It wasn't exactly surprising considering how easy her neighbor seemed to find annoying others that someone would actually stop and take notice. 

"I have countless files on that subject. This one, however, is all yours. Alice Thatcher Greene, aged 24. Born at St. John's to Evelyn and Alistair on December 23. You missed graduating valedictorian of your class at university because of a C given to you by a professor who didn't believe that you missed a week of class due to illness."

"How do you-?" 

"Though you truly were ill and in hospital that week."

"I had pneumonia," she began replying, but the practiced lie was falling on deaf ears. 

"You had to undergo a mandatory psychiatric evaluation following a suicide attempt." He spoke slowly and very deliberately, only looking up from the file when she had been quiet for a few moments.

"Who are you?" She finally asked with an unsteady voice, neither confirming or denying his statement. Thatcher held her hands together in her lap, hoping to stop them from continuing to shake. The idea that someone she didn't even know could not only break into her apartment but also have access to that kind of personal information seriously disturbed her. 

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?" The man acted as if he had not even heard her speak, his eyes focused once again on the folder in his hands. 

"Don't have one," she answered much more defensively than she had meant to. Her visitor flipped through to the back of the file and upon finding what he was searching for, pulled out a couple photos and handed them over to her.  The first was a shot of Thatcher and Sherlock entering the bar together. The second was them kissing in the entrance way of Baker Street. Perhaps most disturbingly, the third was of Thatcher sitting in Sherlock's lap with her arms wrapped around his neck. While the angle of the shots seemed to indicate they were taken from security cameras, they were much too clear; someone had to have taken them personally. 

"Does Sherlock Holmes actually have a girlfriend?" The man's tone was clearly mocking but she was not amused. 

"I am not his girlfriend." Thatcher held the pictures back out to him, grateful when he quickly took them. 

"Well, I'm not surprised. You're not really his type." 

She nearly laughed. "Sherlock has a type?" 

More photos were being handed over. They were all photos of Sherlock at various ages in compromising positions with different women. He was right though: her neighbor definitely seemed to have a preference. Though none of them shared a particular resemblance to one another, they did share certain characteristics: shoulder length brown hair, slightly larger than average breast size, soft physical features. They were all beautiful and all strikingly different from Thatcher. She flipped through them, her stomach sinking a bit more with each one until she couldn't stand it anymore and handed them back just as quickly as the first set. "Sherlock has a type," she confirmed and pushed her bangs out of her face, painfully aware of how blonde she was. "What's your point? What do you want from me?"

"Information. Nothing too personal, just general updates: how he's doing, what cases he's working on."

"Why me?" 

"Well it's obvious he has an interest in you. Your lack of attributes he is known to find attractive indicates the interest may not be purely sexual. He won't grow bored of you as easily if that's the case. You're the most likely candidate to be able to provide long-term, accurate information." 

Thatcher watched the man's face carefully as he spoke but was unable to detect any hint of emotion being displayed there. She shook her head lightly and said, "I need a reason."

"I worry about him," he answered with a heavy sigh.

Thatcher scoffed at his answer, not believing it in the slightest. "Sounds like a personal problem to me," she stated curtly. 

"Yes, I suppose it is. But we all have our own little things to worry about, don't we? It'd be a such a shame if your research lost it's funding. Quite a problem." There was no remorse in the man's voice, only a hint of taunting. 

"The grant is guaranteed for at least two years, by the government. There's not some backer that you can threaten until he folds." 

"No need to threaten. Your field of study may be promising but it is not essential."

She stared at him, jaw clenched tightly and feeling quite trapped. Her mind couldn't fathom a reason to explain the man's intense interest in her providing information on Sherlock, especially if he had as much power and access as he was leading her to believe. He shouldn't need her yet there he stood, holding her life as she knew it in his hands. They both knew it didn't matter if she wanted to participate or not - she had no choice. 

Thatcher's head shot up, her eyes following the sound of Sherlock's footsteps above them. A heavy wave of panic began to settle in, not helped at all by the man's continuing to speak. "You will, of course, be generously compensated for your help."

"But-" she began to protest, motioning toward the door as the footfalls grew louder. 

"And everything will remain our little secret," he finished, apparently unphased by the imminent presence of their shared interest. 

"Thatcher, I'm going out for a bit. Would you like to come?"  Sherlock had opened the door at the top of her stairs but come no closer. She cursed his sudden recognition of boundaries silently and willed him to come down and find that she was not alone but he simply stood there and pulled his coat on as he waited for her response. 

After glancing quickly at her visitor and receiving a small nod, she stood unsteadily from the couch and moved closer to answer. "Sure! I'll be up in a sec." 

"I'll be in touch," the man told her quietly when she had turned back. He made no move to leave and Thatcher didn't feel like being in his presence any longer so she walked to her bag that lay discarded by the stairs. She crouched down and searched through it for her phone. Once it was located, she stood and began up the stairs, using her free hand to check her jacket pocket and make sure her keys were still there. 

Sherlock's hands were shoved deep into his own pockets as he watched her climb the stairs easily. He let her step in front of him and be first out the door but they had only made it a few feet when she turned back around suddenly. "Sorry," she mumbled after stepping around him and hurrying back to her door. Thatcher pulled her keys out and locked the dead bolt, a small smirk on her lips. She shrugged lightly upon noticing Sherlock carefully watching her and said, "Don't want anyone breaking in."

Thatcher followed him out onto the street and watched him effortlessly hail a cab. "So...where are we going?" She asked once they were seated next to one another in the back. 

"Crime scene," Sherlock answered, not even looking up from the phone that seemed to be glued to his hand. 

"I thought I wasn't being punished?" She asked jokingly and smiling when he finally tore his eyes away from the backlit screen of his phone. 

"You're not," he began, pausing to briefly consider his next words and a small smirk formed on his lips as he spoke. "Consider this our first date." 


End file.
